


cerebellum fused

by langolier



Category: Brick (2005), Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Past Lives, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-29
Updated: 2012-09-29
Packaged: 2017-11-15 05:52:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/langolier/pseuds/langolier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She looks like Laura.  </p>
<p>It is his first thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cerebellum fused

**Author's Note:**

> Inception 4ever.
> 
> This assumes you are at least semi-familiar with the movie Brick; which, if you haven't watched, is totally worth it. Just sayin.

She looks like Laura.  
It is his first thought. Then she opens her mouth and Brendan understands that this is the only time he will ever make that comparison. Laura, with her ballerina neck and snake charmer eyes is not French, for one thing. And Mal, well, Brendan realizes that generic colouring aside, Mal couldn’t be like anyone who has ever existed.  
‘You will come with us, non?’ She says, and it’s not really a question. Brendan knows this. She is offering him a job; she’s offering him an out. An escape from a government that had taken everything he had to give and then decided it didn’t want him. It was like losing Em all over again. Brendan meets her gaze, direct and knowing, like she sees every piece he’s welded together with iron and shrapnel, casings from guns. The military taught him to compartmentalize and he has made boxes of himself (storage spaces, chambers with metal doors and guards) PASIV technology has made him even more paranoid, he hadn’t thought it possible. He meets Dom later, his sombre face etched with laugh lines and enthusiasm, but it's Mal who pulls him in. Tells him about their research, about the potential, two layers deep she tells him. Her accent rounding out the words; a dream within a dream. All Brendan hears is that he won't have to kill real people anymore. He lets her take his hand.  
She calls him Arthur (the once and future king) and Dom grins with his whole face in agreement. Later, intoxicated in Bangkok after he'd fled the States, Doms’ mouth will turn up in the closest he gets to a smile; 'it's a fitting name for a Point Man in this business'. Brendan will make a sound of assent and pluck the tumbler from Doms’ numb fingers. He will not ask him what he means.

€  
He calls Brain-once-before he's fully off the grid. It is both better and worse than the phone call they had before Brendan (Arthur Arthur Arthur) shipped out for the first time.  
'So where are they sending you this time?' Brain's voice sounds close over the line.  
"'They' aren't sending me anywhere. I'm out Brain. “There’s a pause and it's Brain adjusting his glasses.  
'For good?' Brendan nods unconsciously as he answers.  
"For good."  
'Good. That's good Brendan. ‘Brendan smiles into the receiver, takes a breath.  
"I'm going to be out of touch for a while Brain." Papers shuffle in the background, the click of a pen being set down.  
'How long?' He asks. Brendan feels each letter in the back of his throat when he speaks into the mouthpiece.  
"I don't know. But I'll call when I can." It is honest and the best he can do at the time. Brain knows this. ‘Take care of yourself Brendan.’ There are years of camaraderie and shared secrets between them, it crackles across the connection like a wire tap.  
“You too Brain.” He pauses, “I’ll be in touch.” Brendan waits for the connection to go dead. They do not say goodbye.  
€  
Brendan sometimes forgets that Arthur does not wear glasses. It happens rarely, because if there is anything constant between his past and present selves it is his precision, but regardless of the name he answers to he remains irreversibly human. This is fact. Arthur does not need to remove his glasses and place them meticulously into their hard case before engaging with projections deep in a marks subconscious. Through the wonders of a different technology all together and the invincibility of dream space, a pair of broken glasses is no longer a concern. He has been Arthur a long time, but some habits are deeply ingrained.  
So when they’re working late into the night on the Fischer job and the overhead lights in the warehouse get just a little too mean against the backs of his eyes Brendan reaches up to push the glasses Arthur does not wear back into place. It only takes a half second to correct the gesture, to dig fingertips into the bridge of his nose, the actions of a tired man fighting against fatigue; but he is caught out. He sees Eames track the movement through the space between his fingers. Brendan drops his hand and continues making notes, pretends he’s not watching Eames watch him from the other side of the room.  
€  
Eames says his name like it’s a foreign language, when he says his name at all. The vowels and consonants are all curved and bevelled in his chest somewhere and when he says it ( _when_ he says it) it feels like when Brendan answered to it for the first time. How it felt when Mal used to say it; it is exactly the same (it is not the same at all).  
He passes Em’s projection in the lobby, blue bangles knocking together in the hollow sound of plastic. _You have to let me go_ echoes like a chorus against the kaleidoscope of sewer water, white powder and the curling smoke of a cigarette twisting into nothing. _I did_ Brendan thinks and he smiles quickly at her while Ariadne leads them up toward the elevators. In the weak light through the windows her hair glows like a halo, Em smiles back. Then they’re running through the hotel scene and Brendan is thinking about timing and security and not fucking up.  
‘Darling,’ this is not one of his names, but he looks up anyway. The snap click as their eyes come together is the slack threads between them pulling taut.  
“Mr. Eames”. There is more here.  
€  
His first Christmas as Arthur is spent surrounded by fairy lights. He is sitting with Mal on her living room floor, sorting out vibrant glass ornaments and the long crystal shards she favours over tinsel. Brendan watches her lift each shard out of its foam slot and hold it up so that the light from the fire and the decorative bulbs catch and refract dancing stars across the walls. Her free hand rests on the curve of her stomach, fingers idly drawing circular patterns and the lights from the crystal glint against her eyes, her hair, her wedding band; she sparkles. It is one of Brendans’ favourite memories. She gives him T.H White wrapped in dark blue paper. ‘You should know your namesake,’ she tells him, glittering Christmas tree between them, ‘your story is important.’ Ideas are resilient, she doesn’t say, they survive.  
€  
When they finally kiss, it feels like a city block folding onto itself. There is the press of Eames hands on either side of his face, pads of his fingers individual points against the skin behind Brendans’ ears, his jaw. The slick slide of Eames’ mouth against his is like a match strike; Brendan can feel the fabric of Eames’ jacket against his palms, under his fingernails, tight fists against Eames’ heart beating in his chest. He feels the candle spark to life inside him, flame bright and harsh and dancing. In the darkness of the warehouse, it burns.  
€  
Beware what you believe.

**Author's Note:**

> *gratitude


End file.
